


Just be here (…okay?)

by ElizabethisjustaKitten



Series: A Study in Affinity [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Parent!fic, Parentlock, yet another feel good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethisjustaKitten/pseuds/ElizabethisjustaKitten
Summary: Sherlock finds John sleeping downstairs on a sofa. They have a little fight.(Or the one where they share more than a flat)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I should name this somehow since this is my third fic in this series and the fourth is coming, huh? 
> 
> Sequel to [ No need of parenting books](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279371) and [ You were supposed to be there (holding my hand)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238874). I'm sorry in advance if there's any mistakes. No beta, ugh.

Sherlock did came to his senses around 3 am. The flat was dark and gloomy, with toys scattered around his feet, making it impossible to make his way to the bathroom in total silence like he would like.

He kept working on a case, probably so emerged in his mind palace, that he didn't notice the time. Since his return from the hospital, he was on a strict observation from certain army doctor and send to bed in reasonable times, so it was nice to lose himself in his work again.

He made his way downstairs to the kitchen to make some tea, when he noticed a body curled at their couch.

With more careful observation, he noticed that it's John. He probably came sleep downstairs having nightmares for the notable portion of the night. Or at least that much he could deduce by the very uncomfortable position he was due to constant stirring and rolling around. There was also sweat on his forehead and his hair were a mess. The comforter was almost whole at the floor and his lips were slightly parted as he moved sleep-talking. 

He came closer, softly putting a hand on his shoulder. 

"John?" 

Sherlock tried shaking him gently, so he won’t startle.

John slowly opened his eyes and hazily blinked a couple times. 

"Sherlock what...“ his voice trailed off as he looked around confused. 

"You need to return to bed John. Your back is going to really hurt tomorrow."

Sherlock did fight the urge to touch his wild hair and smooth it. 

"I can't. I kept waking Rosie up."

Sherlock just sights, sitting on a sofa beside him: "Bad dreams?" 

And it's so normal, so mundane to ask such a thing. Of course Sherlock knows that John was having bad dreams. His constant rumpled state and violent blue shadows under his eyes told him so. But the thought that John might want to talk about it makes him ask anyway. Just as a friend would, not a detective. 

"I kept screaming. She woke every time. How I'm supposed to make this work, Sherlock? I need to be a father, yet I can't even make sure my child sleeps soundly."

Sherlock puts a comforting hand on John's back, slowly moving it up and down in. John melts into his touch almost instantly, the hard knots in his spine softening. He yawns, looking so tired. Sherlock just wants to scoop him into his arms and put to bed by himself.

"You need to sleep, John. You know that, right? In a bed. Go take mine. I will take the couch today and we will figure something out tomorrow." 

John looks at him, something like gratitude in his eyes, but upon closer examination, his expression changes. 

"You haven't slept at all, have you?" 

Sherlock tries not to look guilty but fails. And he can see the way John's eyebrows knit together, that he isn’t entirely happy about his choices. 

"You were stabbed, poisoned and in a coma. You need to take care of yourself!" He says under his breath angrily.

"You haven't sleep for four days during that and now you are barely lying down for 4 hours or so. Don't think I'm not counting." 

Sherlock is mad as well. And he has every reason to be, or so he tells himself. John kept spiralling into this deep abyss of worrying and parenting and even an idiot would notice he needs sleep. 

"This isn't about me!"

"Aren't you the reason we are sitting on this sofa in the middle of the night?"

That shuts him up. John just frowns at him, clutching his comforter a bit closer. 

"Come to bed, John" Sherlock tries again, softer. 

John just sits for a moment, looking at nothing in particular, thinking. 

"Fine." He sights finally. 

Sherlock is about to help him take his pillow and comforter up his stairs, when a hand on his wrist stops him. 

"Under one condition. You will sleep with me."

And it's sound so bad and it sounds so good and Sherlock's heart is suddenly beating faster. His lips are dry, and he is so aware of it, fighting his urge to lick them. 

"In your bed. You will lie down and sleep as a normal person."

Sherlock just smirks at John and John smiles back. It's that secret smile only Sherlock can decipher because it's smile only for him and him alone. 

 _People will talk_ , Sherlock smirks. 

 _How will they know?_ John smiles. 

So Sherlock takes the pillow and the baby monitor and John follows him up the stairs, clutching his comforter. 

He seems a little hesitant lying down beside Sherlock, but the bed is big enough for them and Sherlock is keeping a reasonable distance from his side. John smooths his pillow a few times, awkwardly turning his comforter upside down at first with button under his chin. He corrects it and turns. After he finally lies down, he looks comfortable. 

Sherlock lies down as well, putting the baby monitor on side table by his head. 

"I can take it, if you want." John says with sleepy voice, pointing at the little blue and white machine.

"Just sleep John, it's ok." Sherlock whispers, settling on his side, turning his back to confused John Watson. 

John rolls a few times, as if settling into the new mattress underneath him. There’s a few grunts before he finally finds comfortable position. After a while breathing slows and the room is quiet. 

 

It must be dawn, by the sun lazily crawling to the room, when a scream bolts Sherlock awake. His first instinct is to go into defence mode, since there could be no other reason for screaming than being under attack. 

But there is. John is trashing on the bed, crying from his sleep, screaming at the unseen forces that are causing such terror. 

Sherlock sits on the bed, watching John's face in pain and terror, waiting for the nightmare to calm. There's no such luck.  John is whimpering from his sleep, fanatically repeating certain words Sherlock can't decipher. He slowly reaches for his hand, graving his wrists so John won’t hurt himself or injure Sherlock. 

"Hey, it's ok." He is now holding John's wrists with one hand in handcuff-like grip and places the other one on John's cheek, turning his face to look at it. 

"John, wake up, it's ok. You are safe." His voice is like velvet, barely touching the ears. But the words he whispers are firm and reassuring. 

"John," he repeats as he strokes the hair on his forehead. 

John opens his eyes. His look is disoriented and panicked and only after his vision clears a bit Sherlock lets go of his wrists. 

"You were having another one," Sherlock calmly states. John is shaking a bit now, his body slowly going from anxiety to relief. 

"I'm... sorry-" his words are slurred, voice shaky and on the verge of breaking. Sherlock fights the need to pull him closer and hold until the shock is gone. 

"It's ok," he simply says. 

"No it's not. I woke you. I should have stayed on the couch."

Sherlock just scowls in disbelief and reaches for him anyway, grabbing only his forearm. 

"It's perfectly ok, John. You deserve a sound sleep too."

John just sighs, curling on the bed, this time closer to Sherlock than before. He looks so small, folded into the fetal position with knees almost touching his chin. Sherlock is still holding onto his arm. He lets go immediately 

"I'm sorry, I'm a burden," John whispers tucking his face between his arms in shame. 

"Jesus, stop!" Exclaims Sherlock and his voice is commanding, almost offended.  John lifts his head in a plea. He begs Sherlock to just let it go. 

"You are not a burden. You are an ex-army doctor with some recent traumas happening and you have every right to deal with it in passing time. That doesn't make you an unfit parent or... _roommate_." He hesitates at the last word, only now seeing the ridiculousness of the whole situation. 

"Just let it go..." John whispers, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. He turns away from Sherlock, now facing the door. 

"Oh for Christ, John." Sherlock moves closer to him, hesitantly putting one hand on John's elbow. 

When he does not react, Sherlock grumpily slides his body near Johns, putting one hand across his torso and reaching for his palm. It's sweaty and wet and Sherlock instinctively clutches John more firmly realising what exactly is going on. 

"It's okay. John, you will be ok," his voice is barely there, as he whispers into John's hair and the back of his head. John is shaking more violently now, burning tears slowly running down their wrists.

"Your daughter loves you. And your friends adore you and we will get through this. I'm always here..." he doesn't think really about his words. It's more like reassuring quotes vomiting out of him, than an actual conversation. And it's so strange for Sherlock to just start talking without really thinking first.  John takes his hand, actually pulling him closer now, so the remaining space between them disappears instantly. He folds Sherlock’s hand between his cheek and the pillow, covering it with his. 

There's a loud snort after the cry and it's embarrassing really, because Sherlock wants to get a tissue, but he can't since John is clutching him so tightly. 

"Just... be here, okay?" John asks timidly and Sherlock doesn't dare to move. He buries his face into his hair at the end of his pillow. He can feel his scent. It's so much more tea leaves and John now, less soap and Sherlock's shampoo (which he used again before going to bed by the smell of it). There's a hint of sweat on John's neck, but Sherlock doesn't really mind. It's how John smells to him on a case, adrenaline pumping and all, and it's nice. 

There's an unapprehended tranquillity in holding other person so closely. It's almost entirely foreign to Sherlock and yet there's the recognition of rightfulness in the act. The room is quiet and John's breathing gradually slows from panicked quick extorts to peaceful sleep. And despite the calmness of the scene, Sherlock can't possibly sleep anymore. He is wrapped so completely around John that the doctor seems almost lost in him. He feels every breath the body under him draws and the heat is radiating trough his body into the ends of his fingernails. It's so perfect, the image of stillness and beauty and the only thing Sherlock has on his mind is that it won’t last. 

What will happen in the morning, when John leaves his bed? Will he want to return to it in the evening or will they go on a hunt for a solution? How can Sherlock lie down to this bed ever again alone with the memory of holding John Watson seared to his mind? 

The sun is slowly rising as is Sherlock's own apprehension for the situation. The dreadful hour is slowly coming and Sherlock really want to invent any theory that would help stop time, but his mind, for the first time in years, is mostly blank. There's just John's somehow wet and warm breath on his arm and john's hair under his lips. 

It's just before eight, as Sherlock deduces by the way sun illuminates just part of the room, when a sharp cry sounds from the baby monitor.  Sherlock is awake instantly from his silent thinking, slowly pulling his hand from under John to turn off the sound. His hand is a little numb, and red where John's fingers laced it. 

By the time John even registers something is going on, Sherlock is already standing, baby monitor in his hand, ready to go upstairs. 

"What-?" John mumbles disoriented, slowly sitting up. 

´"I’ve got it, go back to bed," Sherlock says, fighting the urge to tuck John back in immediately and kiss the top of his head. But where is such an idea even from? 

"Are you sure? She can be a bit difficult in the morning." John's voice is slurred but worried. 

"Feed, change, let her play for a while on the blanket in the living room. Milk on room temperature and maybe some baby food if there's any left. I will go shop for it later. I've got this John, go back to sleep!"

To Sherlock’s surprise John obeys and lies back to bed.

 

By the time Sherlock takes care or Rosie, it's almost nine. By the stillness in the house, John is still sleeping. 

"We are going to see what's your father doing, shall we?" Sais Sherlock after sitting in his chair by himself watching Rosie bang a stuffed elephant against the floor. He gently picks her up, scooping the toy with her. 

John is indeed still in bed, now splayed across the whole length of it, with his hands and legs in the shape of a star. It's really astonishing how such a small person can take up so much space. Sherlock gently puts Rosie on a pillow beside him and she proceeds to bang the top of John's head with the elephant. 

"Good morning," Sherlock chuckles, when John makes a whimpering sound and lifts his head. His eyes are still almost closed as he tries to focus on his daughter. 

"What are you doing here, you little munchkin?" He mumbles toward Rosie and puts his head back to the pillow. 

"Who would think that John Watson is such a resilient sleeper?" Sherlock mocks him  

John scoots a little to the side making room for Sherlock. He sits at the edge of the bed. 

"No, closer," John mumbles to the pillow. 

Sherlock sits beside John and John immediately grabs for his wrist. There's a moment of hesitation before he pulls him down, the last quiver of uncertainty that is gone the moment Sherlock's body is mostly on the bed and partially on John. The movement startles Rosie and she starts banging her elephant more vigorously at the headboard. 

"It's so bloody cold in this room, how can you live like this. Honestly, Sherlock..." rants John as he snuggles closer to him, showing his hands between their chest as if for warmth. Sherlock bites his tongue about noting that the room has the ideal temperature required for habitable conditions. He just holds John close, with a baby crawling around them, thinking how he even got into this situation.

But it feels almost perfect. 


End file.
